


Sebben, crudele, mi fai languir (Although, cruel love, you make me languish)

by komorebirei, mireille (komorebirei)



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: A Study of Love, Angst, Bittersweet, Drabbles, F/M, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, L'Amour à la Folie, LadyNoir - Freeform, LadyNoir Drabbles, One-Shots, Pining, Romance, Stream of Consciousness, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2020-10-28 15:09:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20780615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/komorebirei/pseuds/komorebirei, https://archiveofourown.org/users/komorebirei/pseuds/mireille
Summary: Sebben, crudele, mi fai languir,Sempre fedele, ti voglio amar.Although, cruel love, you make me languish,Always faithful, I want to love you.(Or, Chat Noir loves Ladybug so much it's going to drive him mad someday. A collection of LadyNoir drabbles. The first one's in first-person present-tense, but it goes back to third-person past-tense after that.)





	1. I will always love you true

**Author's Note:**

> This is sort of an experiment, sort of just an empathic stream-of-consciousness. The format is not usual for me. But, as this song was stuck in my head and I kept thinking about a love that makes you languish, I had to write it.
> 
> The title is from [this aria](https://youtu.be/cj64UzeprI4). ([Full Lyrics](https://www.8notes.com/scores/Sebben_Crudele_Caldara_Antonio.asp))

I’ve trained my ears to listen for sounds that don’t belong. Like the sound of footsteps the size of buildings, making craters in the pavement. The eerie crack and zip of surfaces rapidly turning to ice. Or the rushing of water—or caramel—or whatever it might be this time—filling up a room, or a building, or all of Paris.

When I hear it, my heart leaps and my stomach turns to stone.

I’m afraid, because I know I might die again today.

I’m elated, because I know I’ll see you soon. 

Anyway, if I die, you’ll bring me back.

My blood pumps for you, because of you, my Bugaboo.

(And even though you hate that name, I use it with utmost affection.)

—

“You should’ve just let me fall! You know I can take care of myself! And it’s so rare for Hawkmoth to show up to the battle—you _ had _him!”

You’re rebuking me because I let him escape to go after you. I know you’re right—you probably could have taken care of yourself. But I couldn’t bear the thought of you getting hurt due to _ my _negligence. I’m your protector, after all. That’s my role.

During a fight, my head and my nerves are buzzing, looking after you and making sure nothing so much as grazes you. You’re sacred. You’re what’s keeping Paris from armageddon.

I know before each fight that I’ll end up sore from being used as a human shield, punching bag, and catapult payload—I’m the chew toy we use to distract the enemy so you can do your part.

What would happen to you if I didn’t protect you?

I know it’ll bruise your pride if I say anything, so instead of arguing, I joke, “The only way I’m gonna let you fall is _ for me, _ Milady.”

It makes my heart ache for two reasons. One—because I don’t know if you care or appreciate what I do for you. Two—because you’ll never fall for me. But my lips are grinning, and you’re none the wiser.

You roll your eyes. “Such a clown.”

I know we’ve fallen into this dynamic. Me as the jokester, you as the strategist, the smart one, the capable one, barely putting up with me. I don’t think you believe that entirely; I think you _ do _value me. I think we both know it’s just a joke when you put me down.

Sometimes, though, I‘m not sure. Especially on those days when all I want to do is tell you how much I love you, and how much I wish we could just walk together and talk, and you’d let me ask all the questions I have for you, and list all the things that I adore about you. The intensity of my longing to do and say these things saps my strength, making me feel hollow.

On those days, I feel so heartsick that I can’t be at all sure how you feel about me. You’d never let me do these things. You must despise me. You must really think I’m a nuisance. My love, which I barely do anything to hide, must be a burden to you.

My love for you has become a farce. I’m just the comic relief, and my love is the punchline.

On those days, your teasing feels cold, and it hurts.

—

Other times, you kill me with how sweet you can be.

“You know what I’m thinking, don’t you, Chaton?”

Okay, maybe you don't mean to be sweet when you say something like that. It’s just something you say offhandedly during battle, in that sassy, confident tone. The one you use when Hawkmoth might be listening through the akuma, and you want to flaunt how great of a partnership we have, because no one can beat the two of us.

But to me, it's sweet.

You probably make nothing of it. I, on the other hand… I treasure those words.

By those words, you mean that you trust me.

You mean that you think we’re close enough for me to read your thoughts.

You mean that we’re two halves of a whole.

You don’t even bother telling me your plans anymore, because you know I understand.

I talk strategy with you, but inside, my heart is singing, “I love you, I love you, I love you,” so much that I feel like I’m overflowing. I transform the energy of my love into fighting fuel. The blows that I absorb don’t hurt, because the euphoria from your words of confidence covers me like a shield.

I show you how well I know you—I do my part dutifully, and when I see that white butterfly winging off into the sky, I know I’ve fulfilled my love to you.

“Well, my kitty, our time’s up.”  
  
Even though you’re saying goodbye, and it’s business as usual, I’ve stored your words away like gems in a hidden compartment in my heart.

You might forget the things you say, but I don’t. I keep them with me. I remember each precious utterance. I turn them over in my mind, when I’m alone, when I’m down—I remind myself that you said I’m _ yours. _

You probably didn’t mean it the way I want you to, but you said the words.

I’m yours. _ Your _kitty.

I’m addicted to those words, drunk on them.

—

During photoshoots in the park, tens of people pass by. Sometimes hundreds.

I watch them, wondering what you’d be like as a civilian.

How do you dress? What things do you talk about?

What’s your favorite food? Do you dance when a catchy song comes on?

What do your eyes look like when you smile, without the mask in the way?

How do you act around your friends? Does everyone love you? Are you the mom-friend? Do you tease them, the way you tease me?

Maybe you’re like _ her. _ Or maybe _ her. _ I try to imagine you, just doing normal, civilian things, and the distance between us seems to grow, as I realize how many things I don’t know about you.

The gap between us slowly drives me mad. The variables, the parts about you that I’m left wondering about, echo as questions in my mind, ever-present as my heartbeat.

I wish, I wish, oh, how I wish I could know you.

—

You already know that I love you.

You know I would die for you.

I wish I could tell you, but how would you feel?

“Hey, LB, I just want you to know that I love you. I love your bright eyes. I love the sound of your voice. I love the determined clench of your fists. I love how the lucky charm gives you random objects, because you don’t need any flashy weapons or tools to save the world. (You don’t even need superpowers to be awesome—the Ladybug miraculous is practically a placebo, because you’ve got all the magic in that brilliant mind of yours.) I love when you treat me like a real cat and scratch me under the chin. I love your outrageously complicated plans. I love how you notice tiny details. I love your compassion, and how you figure out where the akuma is by _ understanding _the victim.”

I want to tell you. But it would be too much, wouldn’t it?

You’d probably give me that uneasy smile, tell me you’re flattered that I love you, and that I’m important to you too (as if that’s a “too,” as if what you’re saying is equal to what I mean when I say I love you)—or make some joke to bury what I’ve said under the anaesthetic of humor.

That’s why it’s easier to pretend I’m joking.

—

I tell myself that it’s okay.

That I don’t need you to return my feelings.

That I don’t need you to know how much I love you.

That I can bear it, as long you’ll have me as your partner.

And in a way, it’s true. I cherish the fact that we’re doing this together. No one has what we have, and in some way, I’m special to you.

“We” are something. I’m _ your _ something. I try to convince myself that that should be enough for me.

I should be used to your presence in my heart and my mind, and the way my senses are acutely attuned to you, the way you’re amplified in me, and can crush me or lift me up so intensely with every little word and action.

Yet, every reminder that my love is in vain chafes at the wound in my heart, and this wound does not heal. My heart has become a wound, and I keep offering it to you, self-resentment preceding every expected rejection.

It’s not your fault, Milady. I don’t blame you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next drabble is in third person, past tense, more in my usual writing style.


	2. You don't mean it the way I do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ladybug and Chat Noir throw things to the wind. Breadcrumbs, caution, inhibition, hopeless words of adoration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another drabble! This time, it's written in third person, as normal. I'm still not sure what I'm doing with this series. I'm not sure if anything will happen. For now, it's just a pot of LadyNoir randomness. ^_^

“I think I have a love-hate relationship with pigeons,” Ladybug thought aloud.

“Purrfectly reasonable of you, Milady,” Chat Noir chuckled, ripping another morsel off the stale loaf of baguette he was holding and tossing it a few feet away from the squabbling flock of birds pecking furiously at the crumbs stuck in the crevices of Notre Dame’s roof. One pigeon noticed the new treat and broke away from the others to dive after it. Ladybug and Chat Noir both laughed out loud as the rest of the flock soon followed like lemmings.

She didn’t have to explain herself. After defeating Mr. Pigeon twenty-four times, Chat Noir wouldn’t have minded never seeing another pigeon in his life. But it _ was _very amusing to watch them stumble over one another to chase the crumbs from one end of the roof to the other.

Having whittled down her current loaf of stale bread to nothing, Ladybug opened her yo-yo and extracted another segment of dry baguette.

“Where do you get all these stale baguettes?” Chat inquired as she flicked a piece into the fray. “Dumpster diving, Milady? I’m the one who’s supposed to be prowling around in alleys, not you.”

“Tom and Sabine’s,” Ladybug answered lightly.

Chat’s ears perked up at the mention of the very familiar bakery.

“I’ve started picking up their extra bread every night to bring to the local homeless shelters. Would you believe, when I transform holding a giant bag of bread, it all ends up in my yo-yo?” She tapped her yo-yo proudly. “Very useful tool, this.”

“Pretty nifty, Bugaboo,” Chat commented, a little saddened that she had started a project as Ladybug without bothering to tell him. Weren’t they supposed to be partners? “I’ve never really tested the limits of how much my staff can hold, but I bet it can do the same thing.”

“I’m sure it can.”

“I was trying to imply that I could help you,” he spelled out.

Ladybug paused to consider.

Chat frowned at her reluctance to let him into her life, even when masked duties were concerned.

“… All right. Tomorrow, then. Meet me there at closing time—eight p.m.” She closed her fingers around a handful of little tidbits she had ripped off and flung them all at once. The pieces scattered, earning a fluttering of wings that disturbed the air, sending gusts of wind in all directions.

Chat Noir sneezed three times.

“I keep forgetting you’re allergic to feathers,” Ladybug giggled. “Sorry, Chaton. Why do you keep doing this with me if it’s making you suffer?”

Chat sniffled. “I’m not suffering.” He’d gotten used to the itch in his nose, and he only really sneezed if the pigeons got close or the air from their wings blew into his face. “I’m doing this because I love you, of course!” He put on an exaggerated smile.

Ladybug pulled a tissue out of her yo-yo and handed it to Chat Noir, giving him a scratch under the chin on the way.

Chat Noir wondered if she knew that he wasn’t a real cat. Well, of course she knew, but did she really? She _ must _ think of him as actually being part cat, because he couldn’t imagine her doing that little scratch if he were a civilian. Or petting his hair, or rubbing behind his ears, which _ sometimes _happened.

He blew his nose and pocketed the used tissue, then realized he was taking the wrong approach. “Actually, I take that back. I _ am _suffering. See how far I’m willing to go for you, Milady? Do I get any points for how much I love you?”

He threw the words out again, achingly. Not that she would be able to tell how much he meant them, from his nonchalant tone.

“You know I love you, too. Satisfied?”

She didn’t even look at him as she spoke the words blithely, tossing out a large chunk of bread further down the roof, away from them. (Chat’s nose thanked her for that.)

“More than satisfied, Bugaboo.”

He couldn’t quite recall when she had started saying ‘I love you’ back to him, but he couldn’t get enough of it. He said it more often than was probably socially acceptable between two people who weren’t dating, like throwing out a fishing line, hoping she would say it back. Eighty percent of the time, she didn’t. But sometimes, she did.

He _ wasn’t _satisfied, though—because she didn’t mean it.

Well, maybe she did, on some level. They had a special relationship. They understood each other in a way that no one from their civilian lives possibly could. But she didn’t mean it the same way he did, that was for sure.

“Why do you spend time with me like this, LB?” Chat tossed another piece, a large one that he was sure the birds would play tug-of-war over. “You don’t see this as a waste of time?”

“Of course not, Chaton. I have fun with you.” She smiled at him.

Chat quietly marveled at this statement. When had it started being okay to just have _fun_ together?

He had started going out randomly more and more often, on the off-chance that she would join him. Most of the time, she didn’t, but once in a blue moon, like today, she graced him with her company. It gave him enough encouragement to spend almost every minute of his free time in the suit, on so-called ‘patrol,’ hopping rooftops and hoping to be sighted.

Chat Noir’s chest ached. He wasn’t sure what he wanted. Shouldn’t he be satisfied with being able to spend time with the girl he loved?

He wanted her to mean it when she said ‘I love you.’

“I love spending time with you,” he sighed, throwing out the line again, less directly this time.

Ladybug just laughed and chucked another handful of crumbs. Her loaf was already gone, and she brushed off her hands, the sharp claps of her palms sending crisp echoes across the rooftops in the autumn air. This time, she didn’t reach into her yo-yo for another. “Well, mon Minou… homework awaits.”

“Okay.” His tone sounded as deflated as he felt. His lips moved of their own accord—“I love you, LB.”

“See you next time, Minou.” She leapt off the roof, leaving him alone.

He had pressed too many times. Of course she wouldn’t say it again, but the hope and expectation building in his chest made her casual goodbye sound cold.

The way he’d said it was too serious—that was his mistake. She only said it back when he made it sound like he was joking.

Ironic. To get her to say she loved him, he had to pretend _ he _didn’t mean it.

Yet, he willingly cheapened his ‘I love you’s, throwing them out like stale breadcrumbs, for the chance to hear those precious words from her lips… even if she didn’t mean them.

He savored them, like dark chocolates sucked instead of chewed. When the sweetness disappeared, only a faint bitterness remained, leaving him empty and far from satisfied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ho hum. What do you think?


End file.
